Coach comes from a local high school where he’s leading in the division. Don’t ask me what division because I’m not even sure what I’m talking about honestly (I’m gay, remember?). But he likes to talk sports the entire time. He’s shown me a thing or two, such as wrestling maneuvers and how to tighten my hamstrings when I’ve worn them out.
One of Coach’s favorite fantasies is to have me (what he calls a ‘sissy boy’) take complete advantage of him.
At his house, he works out in his personal gym and I walk in wearing the most girly gym outfit I can conjure. Then, I start pushing him around, telling him to take off his clothes. I force him to his knees and shove his face into my crotch, giving him commands about sucking my cock through the material. His cock is usually throbbing at this point, but I tell him not to touch it or I’m leaving. This usually makes it worse, but he does as I say.
Next, I put him on one of his machines and force him to workout while I play with his cock. Honestly, I think the shit is dangerous and I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself when we fuck around this way, but I don’t get paid to worry about the safety of my clients. I continue jerking his cock, yelling at him to ‘pump harder’ or ‘go faster’.
“Don’t slow down dirt bag or I’m not going to fuck you,” I say. This pushes him even further because he wants my cock inside his man hole.
Finally, I tie him up to the weight-lifting bench using his jump ropes, putting his legs up towards his head. This gives me direct access to his ass. I don’t even use spit to enter. Instead, I shove it in and I pound away just the way he wants it. He’s swooning and cooing for it until I finally blow my load.
I undo one rope and I leave his home without saying a word. I let him rest for a moment until he unties himself and heals. Two weeks later, he’s usually giving me another call to come by and take care of business.
Another client of mine prefers me to lay down on my back, while he’s on top, and stare up into his intense brown eyes. As he does his business, he sings songs to me, and they’re all Adele songs.
He knows every lyric, every note, and he sings it in a loud falsetto that would make any girl blush. If he’s close to cumming and he’s started a new song, he doesn’t cum until the last word is sung and the tune is finished.
So in that window of him holding on for dear life, he has a face of immense displeasure but he doesn’t stop singing. Instead, he gets louder, puts more feeling into it, and he’s practically crying when he can finally cum.
I am to be quiet, not say a word, and continue staring up into his eyes while he sings to me the whole time.
Fuck you, Adele. You are what creates nightmares.
I have a client named Mr. Blue (I know, I’m so original) who likes me to tease him at all hours of the night, and at dawn, wants me to leave him without satisfying him. Sounds crazy, right?
Well, when I asked him why, he said it’s because he loves the feel of his balls tightening up more and more with each stage of arousal and he doesn’t ever want it to stop.
I asked him what it feels like by the time I leave, and he said word for word: “Like Sasquatch is squishing tomatoes.” Ouch.
Something I noticed about my previous posts is that I never got into my sex life before becoming an escort. It would probably explain why I was so determined to do good or why I would’ve considered going through with it in the first place.
I had my first sexual encounter at the age of 15. It was with a boy from another local town who was also out and was being bullied for being queer. Let’s call him Hutch. We met via the internet thanks to an online chat room back in the days of Yahoo before all the good chat rooms full of child predators were removed. After talking for weeks, we decided to meet.
He was 16 with a license and allowed to drive anywhere within a 25-mile radius by law, so he drove over in a beat up grey-and-red GMC pickup truck.
Hutch stood about four inches taller than me, wearing faded Wranglers, a baggy T-shirt, dirty brown boots, and a green hat that said Deere and had a picture of a tractor on the front of it. He couldn’t have been more of a redneck unless he was Jeff Foxworthy himself. But he was cute with round cheeks and a sweet, doesn’t-know-any-better disposition.
Let me rewind for just a moment. Right before Hutch arrived, I got nervous about my breath smelling bad so I popped about five pieces of Eclipse gum, and I chewed away on it for about a minute before spitting it out.
Now, put two teenage gay boys together without adult supervision (Momma was working) and you know things will get hot and heavy. So we ended up in my bedroom kissing, groping, and grinding. As we kissed, he commented on my fresh breath and I high-fived myself on the inside. Then, we ended up naked touching each other and rolling around on my bed. Before I realized what I was doing, I was going down on him.
Do you know the tingling sensation you get in your mouth while chewing on minty gum? For me, Eclipse left my mouth feeling cool and refreshing because of the mint flavor. Well, put it on your dick and it feels like burning.
Within about a minute, Hutch hopped up and yelped telling me my mouth burned. Meanwhile, my young mind wasn’t developed or intelligent enough to think about the five pieces of mint-packed gum I shoved in my mouth moments before I sucked Hutch’s dick. No, I immediately went to demon-baby child with brimstone saliva. I’m not making this shit up. I literally thought God was punishing me, and all men who got with me, for being homosexual by giving me an unfuckable mouth.
Needless to say, I never saw Hutch again. But I did come to realize it was the gum that burned his dick and not my devil lava mouth. Thank you Google!
My next experience came when a new guy arrived at school: CJ. CJ grew up on the west coast surrounded by tons of gay guys. He even claimed to be bisexual, so I immediately went on the prowl.
Unfortunately, CJ started dating my best friend Thea literally the second day he arrived. I left him alone because I had morals, and I wasn’t going to fuck over my best friend. However, CJ was apparently a heathen and didn’t give a shit about morals.
Thea lived in the middle of the woods miles away from town, so CJ kept himself occupied at my place during the week because I lived nearby. He’d come over every night to watch TV or play video games. We became close friends, and I actually enjoyed having a friend who happened to be a guy.
All of it unraveled one night when CJ brought over a video cassette he found under his father’s bed. Since I owned a VCR in my room, and Momma usually worked all the time, CJ brought it over for us to watch together. We sat on my bed (nothing new), inserted the tape, and pressed play. Displayed before my eyes, and his, wasn’t anything new. Thanks to the internet, we pretty much saw it all. But for some reason, this porn made us hot, extremely hot to the point where we pulled each other’s dicks out and started stroking.
Before I knew it, CJ leaned over and started making out with me. Thankfully, I had a tiny bit of experience with Hutch and I managed to get CJ turned on that much more. He hopped up on his knees, laid on top of me with his dick in my face, and placed my dick in his mouth. I couldn’t hold back. Thea wasn’t even in my mind. From this point forward, my morals were pretty much lost on me.
CJ and I sucked each other off three or four times that day. That night, we slept with each other and I let him fuck me. For those of you inexperienced, don’t forget to use a mountain of lube. Mt. Fuji size is perfect.
Before I knew it, CJ and I were sneaking away every second we had to suck and/or fuck one another. We’d go to the bathroom together, we hung out every weeknight, and we had gym together. This went on until we graduated, and Thea was none the wiser. In fact, nobody had a clue.
Thea and CJ went on to marry and have three kids. Apparently, CJ had a male friend over while Thea was working one night and the four year old walked in on the two of them ‘wrestling’. When the kid started mimicking what he saw, Thea put two and two together and confronted him. I lost a friend; he lost a wife.
It sucks hurting your friends, especially when it comes to sex. Sex just feels so fucking good. You think it can never be wrong, right? Unfortunately, it is wrong to hurt the ones you love.
Since my options were limited, and I spent all my free time with CJ, I didn’t have a boyfriend until I moved to my current city of residence. Let’s call it Tulford. Tulford has more people, a big gay population, and easier access thanks to the clubs and bars.
Eventually, as I hopped from club to club, utilizing my fake ID to the fullest, I met Mr. Teeth. Teeth had a beautiful, charismatic smile and a fantastic personality. He also happened to be a rock star (if you’re a Muppet fan, you’ll realize why I used Mr. Teeth). And rock stars are deadly.
First of all, they have an amazing talent (usually) and it can lead one of two ways: 1) you are proud of their talent to the point that you feel they are wasting it on their shitty band or 2) you become jealous because they’re actually moving towards their awesome goals. If you’re anything like me, it’s both. And it caused issues.
Let me remind you that I was 18. I was young, dumb, and full of cum. I “loved” Teeth and he was my everything, probably because I was too young to have any idea of an identity. So I felt completely unfulfilled, and seeing this amazing guy with great talent wasting it on these douchebags in his band, I became pretty much every definition of the word bat-shit insane.
In the meantime, when we weren’t fighting (mostly due to my antics), we were fucking like rabbits. It was Easter everyday. Just a season of fertility, and thankfully, I couldn’t get pregnant.
At some point, Teeth called it quits and I felt heartbroken. I felt lost and unsure of what to do with myself. After years of therapy (yes, I see a therapist), I realized I didn’t have an identity at the time.
From that point forward, I started fucking everything in sight. It was the only way I developed a relationship with anyone because it was the only time I felt good about myself around people. Pretty fucking deep, right?
Well, at the time, I didn’t realize this. I simply fucked my way through men like toilet paper and found myself broke and intimately alone. When Jasmine told me how she made her money, I said to myself, “I can do this. I do it anyway. I can just make money doing it now.”
Thanks to therapy, I understand why I started, but I’m also in-touch with myself to continue forward. So please don’t worry about my mental stability. The doctor says straight jackets aren’t mandatory… yet.
So that’s my history. That’s how I eventually became an escort. I turned into one of those ‘sex addicts’ and realized I can love sex AND make money without it involving all that mental stuff. It’s my job.
There’s a lot to being an escort that most people don’t know:
- I’ve hinted on it quite a bit through my last few posts, but escorts can’t have relationships. You can try, but it most likely won’t work out. Even if the guy (or girl) can deal, it won’t be very long before they start to get jealous. Why? What do you do for a living? Are you a computer programmer? What do you talk about mostly? Computer programming, right? All your jokes are about computer programming. All your stories deal with programming a computer. Your degree is in computer programming. Take the same equation and swap out “computer programming” with “sex.” Marc Maron talked on his WTFPodcast a few weeks back with Big Jay Oakerson about how people in the sex industry can’t talk about anything other than sex. And they’re right. After all, I started this blog because I kept telling everyone my stories of living in the sex industry.
- Anonymity means everything. If you don’t want your parents to know, your work to know, your friends to know, you have to keep your mouth shut around certain people. I know who to trust and who not to trust with my stories. Many people who told me to start a blog were all escorts. They’re the only ones who know the code. Otherwise, it was clients who usually had to keep their shenanigans under wraps for the sake of their marriages. I’ve been striving for years to keep this away from my Momma. She’d probably keel over from a heart attack if she ever knew about it.
- Finally, if you’re a true sex fiend, such as myself, you’ll understand that it doesn’t ever get boring for us. It’s more than a hobby. It’s more than something you do with your best friend or lover. However, it isn’t quite like an addiction. Sure, Dr. Drew can sit there and claim there’s a problem all he wants, but the amount of love I have for sex isn’t some weird way to punish myself or make me feel less than human. See, that’s where the “sex addicts” are different. Usually, they have psychological problems and they use sex as a form of punishment. Myself? I just love sucking and fucking and cumming. Is that really such a bad thing?
I hope this gives you a bit of insight into the world of being an escort. We’re not vicious, evil bitches with daddy issues. We’re nymphomaniacs getting paid to do what we love doing!
After my first official assignment as a call boy, I started taking on a long list of different clients. I felt like I owned the world and that all men wanted to fuck me and pay me for doing so. I thought I was some hot shit.
Friday kept me busy with clients new and old, filling up my calendar to the point where I used my lunch break at the adult store to service a few of the gentlemen. Money was being thrown at us and Friday couldn’t have been more pleased. However, the amount of new clients he had for me was dwindling. I had a few regulars to keep up with the bills, but I seemed to have satiated the appetite of most men in the area.
“You have to find me some new clientele, ” Friday stated. He pounded away on a calculalator while tallying up the total from the previous night. You could literally see the dollar signs in his eyes.
I was shocked by his demand. “Excuse me? I thought this was your thing. The men come to you.”
“And you’ve fucked all the men who come to me. I need more.” He didn’t look up to talk to me. Instead, I stared at his shiny balding head covered in sweat. The man never stopped sweating, even in winter.
“You don’t have a web of social contacts or something? When did I become a street hustler?”
Finally, Friday stared up from his money and gave me an annoyed look. “I’ve used up all the connections in my book. You’ve gone through them like a teenage boy goes through Kleenex. If you want more clients, you need to go to Crystal Palace (a local club) and tease men with your hot bod and bring them to us.”
To say the least, I wasn’t impressed. Also, let me remind you I was getting pretty full of myself, so I thought this was below me.
“All of us have to do it at some point, boo,” Jazz insisted. She put on a purple mini skirt and a shiny white top while brushing her hair and putting on makeup. The girl was the queen of multitasking. “Friday can only bring in so many and only so many come back for seconds. You have to build a clientele and make enough regulars to the point where you can sustain yourself.”
Meanwhile, I got dressed for the club at the behest of Jasmine. I chose a hot blue T-shirt made of nylon that conformed to my body and a pair of black jeans tight around my ass. “Then what part does Friday play if he can’t provide us clients?”
“If you want to start your own business, go for it. You wouldn’t be the first to try. And you’ll probably fail.” I gave her a hurt look and she shrugged her shoulders. “Do you want me to tell you the truth or lie?” She sat down on the edge of her bed to put on a pair of thigh-high heels. “This happens to every new escort, especially ones with big horny appetites like yours: they fuck through every last client possible and Friday eventually runs out, so he sends them to bring in clientele; they all get massive egos and think they can do the shit themselves. It hardly ever works out. Friday is successful because he knows the business. Sure, you’d bring in the clients, but he negotiates with them. He offers them things to keep them coming back.” Jazz stood up and checked herself out in the mirror. “Do what you want but remember you’re not a God of Gay Sex and you’re not the only one with a hot ass.”
Feeling a little hurt, and a little more humble, I went to the club alone to rope in some clients, but I didn’t feel on top of the world any longer. Instead of flirting my way into every guy’s lap, I stayed near the bar drinking myself to death.
I watched the other people dancing, swooning for each other. I thought of yogi Victor and Reynolds. Maybe we could’ve been one of those couples on the dance floor.
In mid-sip of my rum and coke, a man backed into me and the drink went all over my outfit. I snarled in anger, but I dismissed the guy and walked away towards the bathroom. Unfortunately, the women’s bathroom is taken over by the drag queens as a dressing room so the boy’s bathroom becomes unisex and all I could see was a bunch of muff-eaters going down on one another. Instead of trying to walk through the mine field of vagina, I turned around and decided to leave.
While I gathered my coat at the door, a guy in a business suit walked up to me. “I’m so sorry. I’m the one that bumped into you. My friends and I are celebrating a toast to my new job. We got a little out of hand. Is there anything I can do to help?” He slurred his words and he held an empty bottle in his hand. Apparently, he wasn’t much of a drinker.
The guy was a few inches taller than me, a little bulky like an ex-football player, and he had a shaved head. He was pretty cute for a guy my age.
I sighed and gave a weak smile. “I appreciate it but I’m just gonna head home. Besides, I’m all wet. I should change.”
“I can go with you,” he mumbled. A smile appeared on his face. He looked too cute with that goofy grin.
“What about your friends?”
He looked over at the group of guys at the bar and nodded his head at them. They all gave thumb-ups and yelled out in unison. How were these guys gay? They were a bunch of recently graduated frat buddies who seemed to be into sports. Then, he turned back to me with his grin and said, “They won’t mind.”
Needless to say, I drove the guy back to the apartment. Jazz was gone for the night with a client so I knew we wouldn’t be interrupted. Normally, one should never bring someone home, especially in the escort business. You either meet them somewhere or rent a room. But the guy was too drunk to remember his own name. No, literally, the guy forgot. So I call him Goofy for his grin.
Goofy and I tried to make out, but he had dragon breath. Instead, I took a shot at giving him a blow job. Sadly, he couldn’t get it up because of all the alcohol. Honestly, none of this was helping my ego. But at the end of the night, I covered him in a blanket on the couch and let him sleep it off.
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of something cooking and I feared the apartment was on fire. I stormed out of my bedroom and saw Goofy standing in the kitchen in boxers, chopping away at some bell peppers from the fridge.
He heard the sound of someone behind him, so he turned and smiled. His smiles, drunk or sober, were the same. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I could make us some breakfast.”
I scratched my head, relaxed knowing the apartment wasn’t burning down, and sat down at the table located at the end of the kitchen in a small nook. “No, it’s fine. Did you get any sleep?”
He nodded his head. “Thank you for letting me crash. I guess we didn’t do anything since I slept on the couch?”
“We tried… hard, but you had a bit too much to drink.”
“Figures. So did you get the money from the guys?”
I stared at him confused. “What?”
“My friends. Did you get the money from them?” He placed the pan of scrambled eggs over two plates and scraped half onto each. Then, he brought both plates over and sat one down in front of me.
“What money?” I looked at the plate of delicious food and stared back at Goofy.
He started diving into the eggs and answered with a mouth full. “The money for fucking me, or trying to at least.”
Suddenly, everything started falling into place. I drove Goofy home and told him to call if he wanted to try again minus the alcohol. Then, I barreled it to Friday’s and burst through the door pissed.
He sat in his rolling office chair in the middle of the room, completely naked with a hot redhead with fake tits going down on him. The girl stopped to look, shocked by the sound of me breaking in. Friday placed his hand on the back of her head and put his cock back into her mouth. Then, he looked up at me, without any sign of emotion, and said in between grunts of passion: “Yes?”
“You set me up, you bastard. You and Jasmine!”
He grunted again before pushing the girl off and shoo-ed her away. After she left the room, he stood from his chair and went to his desk, grabbing a pack of cigarettes, putting one in his mouth, and lighting it. He inhaled the smoke and held it for a second in his lungs while he stared at me.
“You were getting cocky” he started, “and you were tearing through the list of clients. I wanted to teach you humility.”
“By placing doubt in my head?”
“Yes.” He walked over to me, his tiny cock swinging between his thick thighs. “You aren’t the only hot gay boy around. There’s a dime a dozen. You have to pace yourself. You’re building a rapport with these clients. Keep them around by actually getting to know them instead of seducing and fucking them. Make love to them for Christ’s sakes!
“I set you up with the client last night knowing you wouldn’t be able to fuck him. You’d have to get to know him, fall for him a little.” Friday walked back to his chair and sat down, taking a drag of his cigarette. He watched the advice sinking in while my face went through a transition of emotions. “You get him to fall in love with you, enough to make him come back for more. Do that with all your clients. Use Viktor and Reynolds. Use what you made with them and do it with the others.
“Just because you didn’t find happily ever after with them doesn’t mean you can’t give it to some men going through the same.” I watched the ashes of the cigarette fall to the floor while I thought about it. “Do you understand?”
“Good. Go home. Take a week off. Think about it all and come back ready to make love.”
I walked out feeling a little down about the whole mess. Had I taken out all my frustration with Viktor and Reynolds on my clients? Was I really sad I hadn’t found love with them? I didn’t want to be home alone, but I wasn’t sure where to go.
I ended up back at Goofy’s house, honking the horn. He came out in his boxers with that grin on his face. “Do you want to give it another try?” I asked.
I probably offended pretty much the entire Spanish-speaking population, and for that, I apologize. If it’s any consolation, I offend native English speakers with my hackneyed country-fried Southern, gentile accent. So please don’t feel too bad.
If you haven’t already removed me from your list of who to follow, hopefully this story will help you understand why I am stabbing the Spanish language to death. It begins with a guy named Jose.
Jose is a tiny hairdresser at my favorite salon Hot Mess, and he is the tiniest most vicious person you could ever meet. And talk about DRAMA QUEEN with a capital BITCH. He publicly scoffs at other stylists’ clients, making rash comments on their hair after just getting it done. He’s made a chubby gay guy cry, telling him nobody will ever love him for being the cause of the Titanic. And he insists he gets first dibs at every new client that comes in because the other hairdressers’ talents do not come close to the superiority that is Jose. Unfortunately, Jose is fucking the owner of Hot Mess and pretty much has a permanent first chair ranking, thus the big head.
Normally, I avoid Jose because he handles his clients on the other end of the salon from my stylist, a hot German guy named Unst, so he is unable to faze me with his bullshit antics. Today, however, the tiny Puerto Rican set me off like a missile and I was aimed for his ass.
I walked into the salon and went to the front desk to check in. Standing next to Lashelle, the receptionist, was Jose screaming at her for causing a scene in front of his new client because the client disliked Jose’s personality (who would have thought? /sarcasm). Apparently, Lashelle offered to set up the client with someone else, and this pissed Jose off.
“You stupid bitch,” he said standing over her, his hands on his hips, “I’m the best chair in here. There isn’t anyone better. You caused me to lose a client. I can have you fired for this. In fact, I’m calling the owner now to tell him.” His tiny manicured hands reached into his tight women’s pants to pull out a messenger phone and began tapping away on the phone’s keyboard.
“I was just trying to please the customer,” Lashelle explained but Jose wasn’t hearing it.
He bent down and pointed his finger in her face flicking her nose and causing her to jump. “Your ass is mine, missy, so you better kiss it and often if you want to keep your job. Do you understand me?”
After five minutes of Jose bickering, claiming he could get her fired, and Lashelle almost in tears while trying to perform her duties, I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled loud, causing everyone to look my way. I pointed to Jose and I said in a low demanding voice, “Lay off her bitch.”
Jose stood there with his mouth wide open, looking me up and down, sizing me up. He didn’t look impressed. After all, I’m a skinny Southern white boy. “I’m sorry but this is between my employee and me. So move along.”
“Your employee?” Then, I started dropping names: the name of the owner, the name of the guy who owned the building the salon owner leased it from, and the name of the president of the bank the building’s mortgage was being held. “I think you’re pretty much at the bottom of the totem pole, and I’m sure the owner of the salon would appreciate you sitting the fuck down and shutting up before you lose any more goddamn clientele.”
A sudden cheer roared out in unison at my diatribe against the skanky Latin hairdresser. So he walked off, his head held high trying to look down at everybody.
“Bitch, you’re too tiny to look down on anyone. Didn’t you hear me? You’re the lowest on the totem pole for a reason: to suck the owner’s dick. That’s all.” Shock rung out among the floor, as though everyone hadn’t already known about the gossip.
Jose decided to leave for the rest of the day, canceling on all the clients waiting for him in the lobby while he whined, bitched, moaned, and groaned at Lashelle. Thankfully, between Lashelle and I, we talked them into seeing different stylists who would be able to assist. From that point forward, they promised to stop going to see Jose at all.
You are a Latina douche bag Jose. Enjoy being the bottom bitch because that’s all you’re good for!